


you were in the darkness too

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was once to be dreaded is now cause for only anticipation. Nightfall gladdens Sansa’s heart; soon Jon will come to her chamber. Soon he’ll kiss her sweetly, touch her with gently needy hands. And every time, he will ask. Jon always asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were in the darkness too

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by **[tenderstrength](http://tenderstrength.tumblr.com)** 's **[headcanon](http://tenderstrength.tumblr.com/post/51119820904/headcanon-4)** for Sansa.

Sansa had learned to fear the dark. She’d loved it once, as a girl in Winterfell. There had been a delicious secrecy in night, a safety. The dark that descended beyond her windows, impenetrable and vast, had made Sansa’s world seem infinite even as it felt personal and cozy and perfect.

Dark had ceased to hold such nice things. They’d made sure of that, Joffrey, his guard, Marillion and Petyr, all the men who saw her as property instead of a person. With them, the dark held more threat than safety, more suffering than secrecy. They’d made her hate what she once loved, in so many ways. Why should darkness have been any different?

She’d slept with a blazing fire each night when she first came home to Winterfell. It had not been enough to banish her fears and keep her from dreaming. She’d loved dreaming once but then her dreams had become only another thing they’d made her hate. So she asked for lanterns for her bedside, she’d set them on tables and hung them from the posts of her bed until every corner and crack of her chamber was illuminated. The darkness of night revealed the darkness of men’s hearts and Sansa wanted nothing to do with either.

But then there was Jon.

He is her cousin now, her bastard half-brother no longer. “Your _bastard_ cousin,” he would remind with a laugh. “Some things have not changed.” But he lies; everything has changed, most especially Sansa. It is she who kisses him, though she’d thought she would never welcome a man’s touch again, let alone seek it out. It’s she who coaxes, inviting his touch, asking for his love though she’s known since they first kissed that it was hers without question. He resists for her, rather than himself, and for that she loves him back, though she’d loved him back already. And she shows him that such resistance is noble but unneeded.

Now the night is a place of sweet touches and soft cries, of pleasure and gentle urgency. He tastes her tongue with his own and wipes away any memory of sour-tasting kisses forced upon her. He suckles at her breast and banishes every memory of Sweetrobin’s wearying persistence. He sups between her thighs and destroys every threat and every taunt, he makes her forget that anyone would have once taken by force what she freely gives him.

“Jon,” she sighs each time, tangling her fingers through the silk of his hair, opening her thighs to the magic he creates with his tongue, opening her body and her heart to him, begging and shameless and not-nearly sated. 

What was once to be dreaded is now cause for only anticipation. Nightfall gladdens Sansa’s heart; soon Jon will come to her chamber. Soon he’ll kiss her sweetly, touch her with gently needy hands. And every time, he will ask. Jon always asks.

“My lady,” he says, his taste lingering on her tongue, his mouth traveling over the sweep of her throat. “May I join you in your bed?”

“You may,” she breathes. _Always_ , she thinks, but she would never say such a thing. It gives her too much joy that he asks.

There are no more lanterns. The fire no longer blazes bright. Instead it burns to embers as he touches her and tastes her and moves within her each night, until finally one night, it burns down to nothing and her chambers are as dark as the night outside and there is no fear, no threat or pain. There is only sweet joy with Jon, and Sansa thinks she could love the dark again for how heightened each touch feels, for how she does not see but rather feels his lips curve in a smile against her neck when she gasps as his fingers find her warm and ready for him.

The rising of the sun becomes an insult. It takes from her the way its setting once did, pulling her from the sweet safety of Jon’s arms. At first she refuses to open her eyes, screwing them tightly shut as if she could deny the coming of morrow by willful ignorance. But light still glows warm behind her eyelids, making her indulgence futile. Most mornings Jon laughs and kisses each tightly closed eye, telling her it will be night again soon. Amazing how such words once would have been a threat but now are a thrilling promise.

On this morning, Sansa refuses to give in. She reaches for the furs and pulls them over both their heads, cocooning them in darkness once again, a darkness even more complete than that of night. 

“It’s still night, isn’t it?” she whispers, kissing over his face blindly until she finds his mouth. “It’s so dark I can’t even see you, it must still be night.” She feels his smile against her lips. His hands find her waist and pull her close. He’s hard against her belly when he insinuates one thigh between hers and drags her hips against it slowly, sending heat blooming under her skin.

“If it’s still night then it’s all right if I do this,” he says, a laugh rich in his voice. “And this.” His lips manifest themselves magically at the sensitive spot just behind her ear, his tongue laving the skin with wet heat. “And this.” Then his fingers begin a leisurely walk down her body, tiny pinpoints of pressure that excite her more with each touch, until he feathers one questing fingertip along the crease of her thigh and then further, so lightly that she thinks she might die from wanting.

“May I?” he asks, his voice thrillingly rough and low.

“You may,” she says, and thinks _always, always, always._


End file.
